


Shimmer and Sickness

by neenapee



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: 1920s, Coughing, Fever, Illnesses, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23496709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenapee/pseuds/neenapee
Summary: Gatsby is missing from his own party. When Nick goes upstairs to investigate, he finds Gatsby completely unraveled by illness.
Relationships: Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 18
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

I’ve been at this wretched part for four hours, and I still haven’t caught a glimpse of Gatsby. At first, I think he may be avoiding the crowd on purpose; on the occasion, he’ll slip into a back room with some nameless girl or lounge at his bar for hours on end without moving an inch. But when I hear the rumors circulating-that he’s on a secret mission for the government, or he’s visiting his secret french lover or sipping wine with the King of Spain- that’s when I know that Gatsby is hiding from his own party. 

By nothing short of a miracle, I manage to slip away from the endless chatter that surrounds me. It has now been four and a half hours since I’ve arrived, and still no sign of the host himself. Nothing about Gatsby has ever worried before, but to not show his face this far into a party is uncharacteristic. My stomach flips, and it isn’t from the rich food or the copious wine. 

I place my hand on the smooth banister, the metal cool underneath my fingertips. I know the one place that Gatsby goes to sulk, from an afternoon spent complaining to me about his loneliness and, for such a myth of a man, it’s shockingly basic. As I wind up the stairs I take one last sweeping glance at the party I’m about to leave behind; it shimmers with the glitz and glam of one of Gatsby’s characteristic parties, and I hear the tinkle of wine glasses below me. The dresses are elegant, the guests radiant, and there is only one element missing to make it a classic party; the host himself. 

I hear sniffling from behind Gatsby’s bedroom door and I rap on the wood once, twice, thrice, until I hear a groan, a couple of staggering footsteps, and the door swings open. “Ah, hello, old sport,” Gatsby says. “I see you’ve found me.” He leans heavily against the doorframe and the man who holds more elegance and poise than any other man I’ve seen looks disheveled. His silk nightshirt is rumpled as if he’s been sleeping in it for a week, and he dabs at his red and running nose with a folded-up handkerchief. Dark rings sit underneath his eyes, and a pale flush spreads across his cheeks. 

“Gatsby, you look ill,” I say. I don’t mean to be blunt, even though it must come off as such because I mean what I’ve said. The man looks like he might topple over at any second which would be bad because I’m not sure if I could catch him. “Are you alright?” 

Gatsby opens his mouth to respond, but he seems overtaken by some invisible force, his eyes fluttering shut and his nose crinkling. He raises the handkerchief to his nose, his breath hitching. The sneeze sounds grating, wrecking his already destroyed throat. He keeps his nose buried in his handkerchief, sniffing wetly as he dabs at his streaming nose. “Excuse me,” he says, his voice taking on a deep, husky quality. “I’ve caught a bit of a cold, but I’ll be-" His voice hitches, and I brace for another one of his harsh sneezes, but the tickle seems to leave as quickly as it had come. "I’ll be fine.”

“Can I at least come in?” I ask. Gatsby shouldn’t be alone; he’s wobbling even though he’s leaning on the door frame. “The party is a bit drab without you there.” This makes a tiny smile perk up on Gatsby’s face, and he moves over, holding the door open wide. 

“I suppose there’s no use letting you sit alone in the hallway, is there?” Gatsby says quietly. 

“I suppose not,” I say. I step into a room that’s almost as elegant as Gatsby is. A tapestry hangs down from the wall, and sink sheets lay across the bed. A desk sits in the corner, dark oak and expertly carved. But even amid the finery of Gatsby’s bedroom, the man himself is still the most opulent thing in the room, even down with a bad cold. 

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” Gatsby says, sitting down on his bed and blowing his nose into the handkerchief. “I prefer to be a more refined host, but I suppose my body had other plans for the night.” He smiles meekly at me, his nose red and raw. It runs a bit onto his upper lip and he dabs the snot away.

“You look fine, Gatsby,” I say. “Never a man more elegant.” His hair isn’t styled. I’ve never seen him without his hair styled. 

“You’re very kind, Nick, but you mustn’t lie on my behalf,” Gatsby says with a deep sniff. As I draw closer to him he ducks down, folding the handkerchief over his mouth, letting it catch his gravelly coughs. The mucous rattles in his chest, his back trembles, and when he comes out of the handkerchief, beads of sweat dot his brow. I take a seat next to him on the bed, setting my hand on his back. I can feel his muscles tense underneath his shirt as he coughs, and when the fit is finally over, he looks a bit dizzy. 

“Gatsby, you poor thing,” I say. “You really are ill, aren’t you?” 

“Just a bit, old sport,” Gatsby says. His voice sounds tired. 

I reach my hand up to his forehead, pressing my palm flat to his skin. I’m met with a dry heat that makes Gatsby himself feel like a furnace. “You’re a bit warm.”

“That’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

“You’re remarkably upbeat about this whole thing,” I tell him chidingly. I hate feeling like his mother but in times such as these, when he burns with fever and drips with illness, it’s more necessary than I’d like. “You should be asleep. And you shouldn’t have all of these people over.” 

“They’re expecting it, old sport, I can’t disappoint,” he says. He sounds as if he’s been gargling gravel all night. It hurts to listen to him speak, and I can’t imagine how it feels for the poor man. “It’s fine, really. I don’t think anyone noticed I was gone.” He shivers, and I draw one of his blankets over his shoulders. The tag says it’s imported from Turkey, and it feels more expensive than my car.

“I noticed you were gone.”

“Yes, well, you’re not quite like the others down there, are you?” Gatsby says. “You know, I’ve often thought-” He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence when he brings his handkerchief up to his nose, his nostrils twitching as he poises for a sneeze. For a snapshot of time, I can see his smooth skin, sharp jawline, in perfect detail. And then he pitches forward with a volley of sneezes, and his face is buried in his handkerchief. His body trembles with the weight of his sneezes, the tip of his nose still plunged deep into his handkerchief. By the time Gatsby is finished he’s dripping, head slumped as he mops up his nose. His shoulders slump and tremble with illness, and I can’t help but revel in the way that such a poised, near god-like man, can be so completely unraveled by something so simple as a cold.

It is a truly fascinating phenomenon, Gatsby’s unraveling, but there’s one issue; he never finished his sentence. When he’s sufficiently cleaned he pulls his legs onto his bed, slipping underneath his silken sheets. “I’m sorry for being such a poor host, but I must get a bit of rest,” Gatsby says. He sniffs, dabbling at his nose with his handkerchief. The spot of fabric must be so wrecked at this point from dealing with the abuse of Gatsby’s leaky nose but for such a rich man, Gatsby doesn’t seem to have another one. “I shall call you in the morning if I am feeling better, but-” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. We both know what he means. Even as he talks he grows paler as if life is being sucked out of him by some invisible force. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was bedbound and ill for the next week, trapped by the weight of his fever. 

“I suppose I should get going, then?” I say. 

“Not if you don’t want to, old sport,” Gatsby says, He sits up, coughing roughly into his handkerchief. “From the sounds of it, it doesn’t sound like you were having much fun with the rest of them. And I’ve got a nice chair and a nightcap. You can stay as long as you’d like.” With his blanket tucked up to his chin and his face flushed with fever, he looks younger. It’s refreshing to see him in such a natural state. I’ve enjoyed my friendship with him greatly, but this is the first I’ve ever seen him without the guise of wealth. He looks like a normal man. 

“I’ll have to take you up on that,” I say. I curl my legs up to my chest as I take a seat in Gatsby’s chair; I’m not ready to sleep yet and compared to my natural clock, it’s early. It’s early for Gatsby, too, but this brutal illness seems to be taking a great toll on his body. He drifts off rather quickly, and soon quiet congested snores fill the room. I stay awake, listening to the sounds of the party downstairs. I couldn’t care less about the glittery people downstairs, the rich food or the fine drinks. All I care about is whether or not Gatsby will take solace in the fact that I’ll still be here when he wakes up.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Nick catches Gatsby's illness, the two get a bit closer than either anticipated.

I wake to an aching back and a burn in my chest unlike any I have ever felt before. My legs, slung over Gatsby’s leather armchair, throb, even though I was so comfortable when I slept last night. I spend a minute in excruciating pain, trying to pinpoint it’s source in my body, when I fold over myself with a series of coughs that make my chest feel as if it has been stabbed. 

When the fit subsides I am left with tears in my eyes and when I breathe, I can hear mucous rattling in my chest, spread thick over my lungs. I glance at Gatsby; he sleeps fitfully in his grand bed, hair mussed with sleep and skin shiny from the sheen of fever sweat. With his mouth parted, and the fever flush spread across his cheeks, he is the picture of illness; a virus that he will recover from, no doubt, but one that will leave him bed bound for days. He does not need to watch me suffer along with him, and I slip out from the chair, my legs shaking with the effort to hold up my body. I take a second, to allow my limbs to reawaken, to regain my strength before I take a step. Each one makes me shake and beads of sweat pop up on my forehead, but each time I look at Gatsby’s sleeping form, I know that it is worth it. We will recover better in our respective houses, and as much as it pains me to leave, I know I must. 

My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a voice behind me. “Nick, where are you going? You wouldn’t leave a sick man to suffer, would you?” 

“I think I should be going, Gatsby,” I say, turning around. “You’d better recover on your own.” I keep my head bent down to the floor; I look dreadful and I know I do, but if Gatsby notices, he would never let me leave. But his brows crease in the middle and he sits up, frowning at me. 

“Come over here.” 

“Why?”

“You look absolutely awful, old sport.” 

“It’s nothing, Gatsby, really,” I say. “A bit of morning congestion, nothing more.” 

“Come over here, Nick,” Gatsby repeats sternly. He sits up straighter, and even in the midst of his illness, he looks intimidating. Intimidating and shockingly beautiful. I feel myself unavoidably drawn to him. His eyes are lightly glazed with fever but when he looks at me, softly, my heart jumps into my throat. 

When he cups my cheek his skin is soft, and he rubs his skin against the scruff of my chin. His touch is so gentle, and I feel myself melting, unable to resist his gaze. “You’re ill,” he observes. “With the same virus I have, I’d assume. I must apologize- I was truly hoping you wouldn’t catch this, but I suppose I wasn’t careful enough.” 

“It wasn’t your fault, Gatsby,” I say. I shiver. “I’ve only been here for a night, anyway. That isn’t enough time for me to-” I pause, coughing into the crook of my arm. Gatsby’s face softens further. “Isn’t enough time for me to fall ill.” 

“It could have been at lunch the other day,” Gatsby reminds me. “Or our boating trip, our golf match, our-” 

“Alright, Gatsby, I get it,” I say. I hadn’t realized how much time we spend together until he had rattled off the list, of all the places we had gone and all of the things we had done. A shiver runs up my spine, and I can’t be sure whether or not the chills come from my fever or from thinking about the sheer amount of time Gatsby and I spend together. 

“Well, get in, then,” Gatsby says, moving over and holding out his silken bedsheets for me to slip underneath. They look soft, warm, and I have to stop myself from laying down and curling up by Gatsby’s side. 

“I should really be going,” I say, my breath shaky. 

“Nonsense, old sport. I’ve got access to the best doctors in the west egg, and I’ve got help that can take care of us. I won’t have you going back to that little house of yours, not as ill as you are.” My breath catches in my throat and an animalistic urge rises in my chest, one that I have tried to suppress for years. It is interrupted by the raspy coughs that shake me to my core, and while they pain me, I must admit that the pain is better than allowing my urges to roam free. 

“If you’d like, I can take up one of the guest rooms, but I can’t intrude upon you like this,” I say. It pains me to talk and my fingers dance across my throat, and I hum quietly, trying to clear the mucous from my throat. I sway gently on my feet. The world around me is hazy, and the edges of Gatsby’s face are softened. I need to sit. 

“I won’t hear a word of that, Nick. I got you sick, and it is my responsibility to assure that you heal properly and quickly. Besides, I’m sure that all of my guests rooms are filled with drunkards or lovers. But change before you lie down; your party clothes can’t be comfortable.” 

I am aware of Gatsby’s eyes on my back as I change, out of my party clothes and into a soft silken set of pajamas from Gatsby’s closet. They feel too fine for my body and if I close my eyes I can pretend that I am Gatsby himself, swathed in the finest riches in the world. 

“Those look nice on you,” Gatsby comments as I slide into bed. Goosebumps pop up on my skin when the sheets hit my bare feet and I shiver. Gatsby rolls closer, and I can feel the smooth skin of his angle against my own. His blue eyes shine, and even flushed with fever, I cannot take my eyes off of him. I am almost grateful for this dreadful illness; while my body has never ached more and my head has never pounded more, it gives me the chance to stay with Gatsby, in his bed, in his clothes, with the excuse to look at him for as long as I wish. “You should keep them.” 

“I can’t,” I say. “They’re clearly expensive.” 

“Money is just that- money,” Gatsby says. “But I could never wear those half as well as you could. Keep them, and think of me when you wear them.” It’s moments like these when I wonder if there is a chance Gatsby could reciprocate my feelings, when makes those casual comments about my appearance. And then I remind myself that Gatsby is just a flirt, and my feelings will never be reciprocated as someone as grand as he. 

I manage out a quiet “thank you,” before there is a tickle in my nose. My mouth parts, I feel my nostrils flare, and my skin crawls as Gatsby watches me in this vulnerable state, held hostage on the brink of this sneeze. I feel his fingers flutter to my back, and they press in harder when my body allows for the release. I sneeze thrice before sniffling wetly, my nose running like a faucet and the bottom of it red and raw. Gatsby passes me an expensive looking handkerchief; even ill, he lives more luxuriously than I could ever imagine. 

“Blow,” Gatsby says quietly. “And then we sleep. I’ll ring someone up to bring up a spot of breakfast, but you look exhausted.” I comply, and I blow. My nose soaks the handkerchief, but Gatsby doesn’t seem to care. His fingers still rest on my back, and I fight the urge to ask him to keep them there. 

“Should we eat first?” I ask him. 

“I’ll have them bring up something cold; it will be there when we wake,” Gatsby says. “But I’m still exhausted, and I’m sure you must be, too.” He lowers his head to the pillow. His nose is ringed red from abrasion, and his cheeks puff out when he coughs. I may be the only person who will ever see him like this; disheveled and ill, with every pore in his body oozing illness. I almost wonder why he let me stay, allowed me to view him in this state, but then I realize; he must trust me, more than most. My chest swells, even as I listen to Gatsby cough up a lung. “Sleep, Nick,” he says quietly. I am lucky enough to have his fingers grace my cheek, even if only to check my temperature. “You’re burning.” 

“So are you,” I point out. 

“Yes, and that is why I will be sleeping,” Gatsby says. When he takes his fingers away from my cheek, I fight the urge to ask him to keep them. “And you will be, too. As my guest, I refuse to see an unwell person go uncared for. Later, once we’re both properly rested, I’ll send for some medicine, the finest in the country. I’ll have you fixed up by the night’s end.” 

“Thank you, Gatsby,” I say quietly. Never have I had someone care so deeply about me. “I mean it.” 

“Of course, old sport. You’re my friend,” he says. His voice, gravelly and rough with the ghosts of coughs, is soft, and I shiver at its sound. Although that could just be chills from the fever that has taken my body hostage. 

Gatsby curls up, his burning forehead on my shoulder. He breathes out of his mouth and I listen to the mucous rattle in his chest, the little coughs that make his body shake and tremble. I do my best to settle like he does, sink into this shell of illness as effortlessly as Gatsby had, but I find it more difficult. He doesn’t seem to mind that his nose drips onto his upper lip, or that he needs to hide his body underneath a pile of blankets to stay warm. He knows that he is gorgeous no matter the state of his illness but for me, every drip from my nose and every throat-burning cough reminds me of how imperfect I am in his presence, and as Gatsby drifts off underneath a sheen of illness, I ask myself how I could ever compare. 

It takes me longer to fall asleep than I would have liked. Every time I am close, I am woken from my half-state of slumber by a cough that makes me shake for minutes after, or a sneeze that scrapes the walls of my throat and makes me cry out in pain. At times Gatsby will murmur in his sleep and I worry that I woke him, but he simply wraps an arm around my waist, and I feel the pain from my fever ease, if only slightly. 

Soon, the pain eases more. It could be the feeling of Gatsby’s arm around me, or simply my body fighting off these germs but either way, I am lulled by the sound of Gatsby’s breathing mingling with my own until I drift, ill and pained, into slumber that will take my hurt away, if only for a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone enjoyed and once again, my tumblr is @siickdays if u guys wanna check it out:)

**Author's Note:**

> hope you guys enjoyed, and if you want you can check out my tumblr @siickdays:)


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